


A New Normal

by quixoticpenguin



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Bitter Jughead, Stream of Consciousness, evolving bughead, inside Jughead's brain, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-11-12 08:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11158173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixoticpenguin/pseuds/quixoticpenguin
Summary: Jughead Jones doesn't know what to make of the new normal in Riverdale during a particularly lonely summer. Things get more complicated still when Betty returns and reaches out to him, chipping at his new walls.A series of vignettes set a Pop's where Jughead tries to find his footing with Betty now that everything has changed.





	1. The Haunting of Jughead Jones

**Author's Note:**

> I've written this chapter with a purposely choppy, stream-of-consciousness style. Slightly before the series starts. Jughead is living in his head. There isn't a lot of dialogue or linear plot development, but I hope it works anyway. I'm interested in your thoughts.
> 
> Set just before 1x01

It had been a lonely summer.

Jughead was used to being alone, but this was the summer he discovered isolation. There was a difference, it seemed. Who knew. There was a week, shortly after the stillborn July 4th road trip, when Jughead was pretty sure he spoke to no one except the wait staff at Pop’s. Sometimes, he would sit in his booth, headphones in, no music playing, just to hear uncensored conversations around him. Mimicking normal human behavior. Pop’s customers discussed the menu, their summer activities, falling property values.

Mostly, they discussed Jason Blossom.

It was the obvious choice, really, but Jughead felt compelled to figure out why. To his knowledge, nobody actually liked the Blossom twins. In fact, no one seemed to know anything about them except that they were obscenely rich and had a real One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest vibe. Maybe the interest sprung from guilt. People usually felt guilty when they were honest about the dearly departed.

But inquisitive minds wanted to know. So Jughead observed and recorded Riverdale that summer, watching for the hollow hypocrisy he’d come to know and love in his small town life. And lo, the people cared.

When Jason went missing, hundreds of people showed up to comb the woods around Sweetwater River for some sign of him. They brought casseroles to creepy-ass Thornhill. They actually walked through the gothic gates and delivered Pyrex pans of creamed chicken slop to The House of Seven Gables on the hill—with honest-to-God concern—before driving home to tsk and bemoan the poor Blossom boy. Riverdale cared. The banner spanning Main Street said so in plain English. They pulled together with hurricane strength winds, which perhaps explains why Jughead, too, seemed to care. It was a virus, that Blossom boy sympathy. Jug didn’t care a lot, mind you. Only about 6300 words worth. So far.

Jughead blamed that lonely summer. After he and his thoughts went 20 rounds yet again during yet another sleepless night in his booth at Pop's, Jughead needed someone else’s problems to obsess over, but no willing candidates were to be found. Mom and Jellybean were out, due to logistical reasons. Jughead didn’t know much by way of FP’s daily routine. Archie was around in a technical sense, but he was . . . absent. Always somewhere else. Jughead had stopped calling after Arch bailed on the road trip, and Archie didn’t really notice.

Betty was gone.

Jughead had turned to the masses for a reprieve, but the masses were collectively obsessed with one thing: Jason Blossom. Goddamn Jason Blossom, Jughead snarled to himself, typing through another blank page. It infuriated him that, though they’d never collided in life, Jason had become Jug’s best damn friend in death. And you can’t outrun the dead.

Can't outrun anything in a town this small.

School would start soon. No escaping Jason there. While Riverdale had mourned through July and August, students coming back to the everyday routine of high school would no doubt feel Jason’s hole in the world in ways they had not yet experienced. That’s what happens after trauma. After loss. All the articles said so. Process a tragedy all you want, but you don’t feel it until you have to live everyday with a new normal. The new normal was pretty par with Jughead’s old, he thought wryly. Lonely days. No Jason Blossom.

Except now he cared that there was no Jason Blossom, even if he didn’t know why. He wanted to figure it out, as if that could glue the pieces of their collective psyche back together. This mystery that broke his town, that broke the nice normal people he envied and resented, was haunting him. 

Fuck Jason Blossom.

Fuck all red-heads.

Fuck Riverdale.

He was moping again. Fuck. He hated when he did that.

There were weak moments in his obsessive preoccupation with the Jason's disappearance when moping snuck though. Jughead didn’t approve of moping. It was the inferior version of brooding, relying on instinctive reactions rather than systemic patterns of shit-for-all life. Moping was what other people did. What a wonderful world this new normal was, moped Jughead.

Archie and Betty. They lingered just out of focus in the back of his mind. All damn summer, just out of focus.

Part of Jug always knew that he was the optional attachment to the Archie-and-Betty machine. Like the vacuum head no one quite knew what to do with but seemed to complete the set. It was comforting that he felt necessary for the whole to be whole. But really . . . the vacuum worked just as well without him. It kinda worked pretty well without Archie, for that matter.

He drops his head to the stickily clean table.

He really tried not to think about Betty. He resented that he knew it was August 17th and that, because it was August 17th, he had to think about Betty. To his mind’s eye bubbled the rose-tinted memory of Betty throwing her arms around his half-hearted side-hug three months ago.

* * *

 

He’d been loitering on Archie’s porch that morning, "waiting" for Archie to drag his ass out of bed. He’d been annoyed. Archie had been pushing it, and he almost missed Betty’s departure. Betty would have carried that hurt with her when she left, so Jughead delayed her with questions about her internship.

“Where is it, again?” Jug had asked.

“At _The New Yorker_. I still can’t believe it.” Her body was crackling with nervous energy.

“Writing the next great American short story?”

“Hardly.” She chewed her lip. Yep. Anxiety. Betty’s go-to tic.“It’ll mostly be office stuff and errands the occasional seminar with the program.”

Jug nodded companionably, eyeing Mr. Cooper hovering around the car a driveway over. He looked pissed. Betty knew it, too. She was chewing her fingernails now.

“Will you be able to pry yourself away in August?”

Betty’s perky ponytail bobbed as she nodded emphatically. “August 17th.”

“What?” Jughead asked absentmindedly, listening for sounds of life in the Andrews' house.

“I get home,” Betty clarified. “I get home just after 6 pm on August 17th.”

Jug rolled his eyes with a smirk. “Just after 6 pm? You sure? You don’t want to take the two months to hone your plan?”

Her laugh had been full and loud and long. Like a siren. A warning. A wake-up-Jughead-and-smell-the-overcompensation alert.

Oh.

Jughead refocused.

 _Oh_.

Betty Cooper was scared shitless.

Okay.

Where the fuck was Archie?

* * *

 

Now . . . .

It was 5:03 pm.

Jughead bet himself a milkshake Betty wouldn’t be anxious to come home anymore. Now a kid was dead. And Betty Cooper would be sitting on her bus, an hour outside of Riverdale, chewing her raw lip in preparation for a new fucking normal where Jughead Jones had traded one red head in for another and spent his days worrying that Betty wouldn't quite make her bus and he'd be left in a broken Riverdale with his new best ghost.


	2. A Siren Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> End of 1x02. Jughead might be in the background of someone else's scene, but cracks in established relationships throw him for a loop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still embracing the choppy, stream-of-consciousness style. It's just how Jughead sounds in my head when he's trying to think through emotions. More actual Betty next time.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like it. (Especially you, jandjsalmon!)

Something weird is going on.

Jughead hung back, as usual, when he and Archie hit up Pop’s for a reconciliatory milkshake. Arch had apologized. Well, he’d punched a guy out and admitted he was being a fucktard (Jughead’s word), which was all the apology Jughead needs. Hell, it's more than he is used to.

They headed to Pop’s. What else were they going to do? Pop’s is sacred ground. Pop’s is trust. You come to Pop’s for shelter from the storm. Jughead knows that better than most. Pop’s is ever present in his life, soothing his home-wrecked heart, feeding him scraps of comfort, connecting him to a town he spurned. Everyone knows it, really. Pop Tate tolerates no fights, no divisions. His place is an oasis.

Archie and Jughead step through the veil and into better times. It doesn't seem to matter to Jughead that Jason Blossom haunts the shadows of the diner and tugs at Jughead's attention; Jug can't help but leave his resentment at the door. He even chats and laughs until he felt Archie tense up, radiating fight-or-flight instincts.

_The hell?_

Jug peers around Archie's aggressively broad shoulder, expecting a seething Reggie or Jason Blossom’s ever-present ghost. Instead, there is Betty.

He hasn't seen her yet, not up close. He glimpsed her in the hall yesterday before scurrying to class, and he saw her at lunch with Archie and Kevin, and he knows she is a cheerleader now, but he could barely look at her night, fixated as he was on Geraldine Grundy and her numerous felonies and . . .

Is she blonder? He can't tell in the pink neon of Pop’s retro lights. She looks blonder. Jughead wonders briefly if it's intentional or natural, a professional touch or kissed by the sun. Or maybe he's just forgotten her hair. He hasn't  _looked_ at her in months and everything seems new and improved and brighter. Her lips are redder, that's for sure. He can see it from here. 

“Betty,” rasps a dry, husky voice. His. _God, that’s embarrassing._

Jug clears his throat.

“Betty’s here,” he tries again.

Archie nods tersely, making Jughead jump. Jug had kinda forgotten Archie was there, or anything was around, really. But he came in with Archie. Of course it is Archie. Who else would he be talking to? He shakes his head. The strange spell of summer lingers on.

He clears this throat once more for good measure and reaches for his beanie. He shifts it slightly, reassuring himself that it's there. He gathers his wilted wits enough to notice that Archie hasn’t swaggered over to Betty’s booth, his customary ease towing Jughead along in its wake. Arch is just standing there, frozen, staring.

Yeah. Something weird is going on.

* * *

 

“There’s Betty!” announced Archie, running headlong into the mess of cafeteria tables. He disappeared.

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” drawled a 13-year-old Jughead. “I’ll just follow the scent of your pep.”

High school was big. Bigger than expected. Jughead knew cognitively that high school, being the apex of public education, would be the largest student body in the largest school building Riverdale, but Riverdale also a small town. There wasn’t room for so many kids . . . or so he thought.

The first day of Freshman year was like war, and war is hell. Jughead hugged the walls as he fought from classroom to classroom, managing to snag his back corner seat only twice so far. His beanie was getting looks, like he should outgrow it because 9th grade was to damned different than 8th.

Well, it was. That’s why he needed it.

Jughead tugged the hat down over his ears before slipping into the chaos of the lunchroom. He couldn’t really see where Archie went, but it was _in there_. In the crowd. Among the peers.

Jug tensed as a student jostled into him, balancing a beige tray and a backpack.

“Sorry, dude.”

“It’s okay,” Jughead mouthed. His voice wasn’t working at the moment. It had been fading all day.

He ducked around a long, red hair flip that grazed his cheek. The unexpected pressure lingered, another chink in his battered armor.

His breath was coming fast and thin, and he spun around, looking for red. Red hair, red exit sign, whatever was closest. Nothing but stiff, unused backpacks and trays of colorless food. He was getting that pain in his chest again, that odd pressure like a balloon wheezing to deflate.

High school was going to fucking kill him.

“Where’s Juggie?”

Jughead’s head snapped up. He knew that voice. It was high and clear and floated above chaos. It was his siren call, to the tether of rocks. He crashed towards it. If he could get to that voice, it would be okay. He would be okay.

“I dunno,” answered Archie’s voice. “I thought he was right behind me.”

“Archie!” exclaimed the life line. “You can’t just leave him. It’s the first day of school!”

A small break opened up in the sea of bodies and Jughead dove towards it. He tumbled out into a blessedly empty space, stumbling to a stop before he could hit the table. Red hair. _Dumbass_.

“Yeah, Archie,” he sneered breathlessly. He'd found his voice, thank God. “You had one job.”

His best friend threw his hands up defensively, but Jughead wasn’t watching him. He was looking to the girl next door with the blonde ponytail and the bright smile.

“Jughead!” Her enthusiasm rang true, inviting him to sit. He slid onto the bench across from her.

“High school sucks,” she continued, all seriousness. “We don’t have a single class together so far. I’ve missed you!”

_Yeah_ , he thought. _I miss you, too, Betty Cooper._  

* * *

 

 Jughead swallows thickly as Betty slowly turns her head to eye the two boys bottle-necked in the doorway. His arm slips from Archie's shoulder. Her eyes are definitely greener and brighter. There’s another girl, dark where Betty is light, hesitantly glancing between her boothmate and Archie. She's pretty, in a cold way. Classic. She lacks the warmth and dynamic life that--theoretically--appeals to Jughead.

But her tension is interesting . . .

_I’ve missed a lot_ , Jughead realizes.

_Yeah_ , sneers the dark corners. _A summer’s worth._

“Are we . . . .” Jughead trails off, peering at Archie’s frozen face. No response. Archie is the paralyzed one tonight. What a fucking irony.

No one is playing their part. Archie is supposed to bound over to Betty, shattering any possible hesitation on Jughead’s part to join them. Jughead relies on that Labrador-like energy. It gives him cover. It eases Jug into social situations, like wading slowly into the ocean. Jug is a wader. He wades. He needed time and cover and that’s why he and Archie work. They're complements of the social sphere.

But not tonight.

As if he needs another reminder that this isn't his Riverdale anymore.

Jughead looks to Betty for a cue. Big mistake. Betty is cursed with an honest face, and Jughead's cursed to know it well. He notes her eyes, wide and hurt, and her mouth, uncertain but set. She's weighing something.

This could be rough. 

“Does she know?” Jughead asks Archie softly.

Betty didn’t look disappointed enough to know about Archie’s seedy affair with the timid music teacher. That, she wouldn’t have been able to control. To have her knight in shining armor and the educational shining city on a hill she loves disappoint her at once? Betty wouldn’t be at Pop’s. She would be at war.

Archie confirms Jug’s conclusion with a soft headshake.

Jughead looks back to Betty. Her face has softened slightly. She looks . . . wistful, and . . . oh.

_Oh_.

“Archie, you goddamn fucking idiot,” Jughead mutters angrily.

Arch just nods miserably.

Jughead hesitates. Does he grab a seat somewhere else? No. He sure as hell isn't going to sit anywhere else when he can sit with Betty. So, can't sit. Do they leave? That seems worse. Jug feels the pressure begin to build in his chest. He can't just stand here, staring.

"Do you guys want to join us?"

That voice. The pressure dissipates, and he smiles despite the lingering tension. That voice will lead him to his fucking death.

Jug steps around his mute friend and marches down to Betty. “Yes.” God yes. “But only if you’re treating.”

He rounds the raven-haired girl to step into the booth from behind. “Jughead Jones the third.” He settles in across from Betty and throws a half smile a Betty. 

“Veronica Lodge,” the new girl replies, a relieved smile on her face. Jug glances at her. She’s trying really hard to relax. Poor girl. He knows better than most how it feels to be a footnote of collateral damage in the Betty and Archie saga.

“Jughead!” Betty cries, clashing emotions adding new textures to her voice. That voice. His attention is pulled from the new girl, never to return. “I haven't had a chance to talk to you since I got back!”

“I know! You totally snubbed me at cheerleading practice,” he teases, wagging his eyebrows. Teasing is safe, familiar ground, and it has the added benefit of . . .

Betty laugh is warm and infectious and electric. It banished the shadows that crept into Pop’s in her absence. It, if only for this moment, miraculously fixes everything.

“Oh, Jughead Jones, I missed you.”

“I missed you, too, Betty Cooper.”


	3. How Well You Know Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mid 1x03
> 
> Betty takes Jughead out to formalize his new position at the Blue and Gold, and Jughead struggles to share the Jason part of his life with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with this one a little. I'm still fascinated by Jughead's obsession with Jason, but I want to build a little of his and Betty's dynamic pre-loads-of-time-together. I'm not sure I nailed it. Advice in the comments would be appreciated.
> 
> Also, thank you for the comments, jandjsalmon and village_skeptic!

"Excuse me, but _what_ did you just say?”

Jughead flicks his eyes up from his bacon cheeseburger. No mean feat. One only Betty could pull of. This cheeseburger, after all, was the only real currency in his life at the moment, and he had damn well paid the price.

The Blue and Gold.

He, like most of the student body, knew of it. It featured heavily in the back-in-my-day stories Pop Tate liked to tell when the nights were late and the tips were liquid. It was a relic of younger Riverdale. A legend.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jughead believed the old journalism room had disappeared like a Wayside School room. Boarded itself up and escaped from collective memory. Walking into it . . . that’d been surreal. Seeing Betty’s wide and hopeful eyes only for him . . . that’d been fucking intoxicating.

Which is why he here he sits, trying to treat this lady right.

The burger. The burger is the lady. Betty is just the company.

And now she’s ruining their moment.

“What?” he grumbles, dropping his eyes to the tempting plate once more. He needs to focus. Reorganize his priorities. Lots of little hits today. Distractions. His cheeseburger deserves better.

“What did you just say to me?” Betty repeats, voice laced with incredulity.

“Betty,” Jug sighs, fingers settling against the twitch between his eyes, “can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?”

Betty snorts. “Yeah, you’re in the middle of a dinner I just bought you.”

His fingers drop to a lazy point. “Correction: I’m trying to be in the middle of a dinner I just earned.”

Her eye roll bleeds into a smile. A small smile, unlike the bright, manic one he’d been treated to earlier today when his obsession conquered his judgement and made him a journalist. This smile isn't for him or the peace of Riverdale High or the demands of her certifiable mother. This smile is being shared with Betty alone. Jughead is just a civilian casualty.

“Betty . . . .”

“Jughead?” Her voice is rich with suppressed mirth, giving it a low, deeply sexy timbre. It bubbles through his senses and he’s buoyed up above the remains of his day.

“I’m going to need more.”

Her blink is slow and playful. “More?”

God help him.

"More details. What has you distracted enough to interrupt a man's date with his food?"

“You, Jughead Jones, are full of surprises. In fact, I’m stunned, Jughead. Gobsmacked. Astounded. Confounded.”

Jug arches an eyebrow. “By your internal Thesaurus?”

“Jughead,” she continues seriously, “you gave me homework!”

“Yeah. So?”

He’s waited long enough. His burger doesn’t deserve this. It’s been patient and damn it all if Jughead Jones the third doesn’t know how to treat a lady.

A burger. He means a burger.

Betty juts her jaw out. There’s a hint of a glare in her trust-me eyes. She’s gone fiery. That’s an image that will linger against the black of his closed eyes for years to come.

Jug drops his eyes to his plate once more. A heavy weight falls with them, settling in the pit of his stomach and expanding to fill the empty space. His appetite, ever his constant friend, wanes.

“I thought _I_ was going to be the editor, Jughead,” she states matter-of-factly.

“I believe our negotiations aren’t quite final.” He gestures to his untouched meal.

Her smile is sweet and sinister as she leans across the table, eyes fixed on his face, to gently slip a French fry from his plate. “Then make them final.”

“Um.” Jughead clears his throat. “That was haunting. Did you poison this?”

Her sweet demeanor intensifies. “Poisoning my only reporter wouldn’t be wise, would it, Juggie.” Not a question.

He barks a laugh because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Sitting in a booth a Pop’s with Betty Cooper is far more unsettling than Jughead anticipated. For all intents and purposes, they are unchaperoned. He feels daring and rebellious, like he’s stealing a scene never meant to be his.

Betty and Archie spend quiet evenings at Pop’s, playfully bantering over the custody of burgers, while Jughead Jones snarks in the corner. Will jester for food. But new Riverdale is the upside down, where Betty focuses her magics on Jughead for one afternoon, and he ends up writing for the school paper.

Dear God, what will be next?

“I still can’t believe you’re giving me homework,” Betty says, popping another fry in her mouth. The salt makes her lips red and swollen.

Jughead shrugs nonchalantly. (He hopes). “I have a bit of a head start.”

Betty nods thoughtfully, slowly chewing another fry.

Jug swallows. Hard.

Betty doesn't seem to notice. “You know, it’s funny to me that you’re so fascinated by Jason’s death. I didn’t know you knew him.”

Well, this is awkward.

What’s he supposed to say? That he never actually met Jason Blossom? That he’s a post-mortem stalker?

Jughead could explain it to her. He could just start at the beginning and explain how the dramatic events of July 4th swept over him in the same wave the engulfed Riverdale but they seemed to break while he’d been sucked under by the current. How in the nights before Kevin found the bloated corpse, Jughead drowned in the details of Jason Blossom’s disappearance. How he’d scoured Cheryl’s witness statement until he knew it verbatim and could picture it when he closed his eyes. How he’d researched drowning times and broken into the school to find the results of Jason Blossom’s latest and last fitness test, comparing the results to statistics found online to determine if Sweetwater River was wide enough and deep enough to claim a star athlete. How he spent hours at the river, documenting the water-based fauna that could have contributed to . How he saw Jason Blossom’s face in the water and dove in to see if it was real.

He could. He can.

Betty sits across from him in the low light, chewing his fries and arching an eyebrow at him. She doesn’t really know what she’s asked of him. She’s demanding access to his lonely summer, his weird bubble with Jason Blossom and the Riverdale that was. She wants to see what only he’s seen.

It’s like she’s trying to own it, too. Retroactively earn it. Carve out a piece of Jason Blossom’s story that could be hers--not Polly’s, not her parents’, not Riverdale’s. Jughead can’t help a flash of jealousy at the thought. He isn’t sure he’s ready to release his narrative.

But he has to say something to her when her eyes linger like that and they’re alone in his ill-lit home and staring each other down with no Archie to pull her attentions and no chaperone to damper Jug’s.

“People brought casseroles to Thornhill.”

So . . . not quite the full-bodied confession he was going for.

Betty chokes on her fry. “What?!” she splutters.

“Yeah.” A dry, half-grin blooms across his face. “To support the Blossoms.”

“Support them with what?” Betty demands.

“Chicken, I believe."

Betty smiles faintly. “Oh my god.” Her smile stretches into a grin. “Maybe that should be your first story.”

She’s laughing now. His work done, Jughead tucks into his stone-cold burger.

“Wait, how do you know?” Betty demands. “I mean--no offense--but  . . . how do you know?!”

Fair question.

“I’m a man of the people, Ms. Cooper.”

“A people’s man.” She winks and his throat goes dry. Where did Betty Cooper learn how to wink like that?

His voice is dry when he replies. “Their struggle is my struggle.”

“A regular Steinbeck.”

Jughead grins wolfishly. “You know me well, Cooper.”

“I don’t know that I do,” she replies honestly.

Jug hesitates. He knows Betty is thinking about his mysterious birth date and his favorite color and his iPod he keeps under lock and key. Add it all up and maybe Betty Cooper doesn't know Jughead the way she values friendship. But . . .

Betty can make Jug laugh and read his moods and make him feel safe in public and heard in conversation and eat his fries from his plate without him killing her.

"If you don't know me, Bets, no one does."


	4. Hello Loneliness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead finds himself alone at Pops, trying to figure out how he alienated everyone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long delay! I got a new job and haven't had any time to write. However, I have figured out how this weird, stream of conscious series will wrap up, and I got a few new ideas for fics. Hopefully writing time will be easier to come by in the future.
> 
> Unbetaed and rough, as usual.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

“No Betty tonight?” Pop Tate asks as Jughead slinks onto his usual stool at the counter. 

_ No shit, Sherlock _ , Jughead thinks, eyeing the empty space next to him sourly. “Just one tonight, Pop.”

“Just like the old days,” Pop replies cheerily. “What’ll it be?”

“Strawberry shake.”

“Branching out. Good for you.”

Pop makes his way to the back kitchen, oblivious to the gutted mess left in his wake. Jughead drops his head into his hands, palms blacking out the warm light of late night Pops. He digs the thick heels, where palm meets wrist, into his eyes until sharp pain pushes back. When he releases the tension, stars burst behind his lids.

Jug had picked up this habit when he was just a kid, finding the white star bursts a comfort and noticing that if he pressed hard enough, sometimes he couldn’t hear the shouting and the crying though his thin walls. It was nice to find a sliver of control in the chaos. He doesn’t want to think about what he’s trying to block now, so he just presses harder.

And harder.

“Hey! Kid!”

 Jughead’s neck spasms as he jerks up too fast. “What?” he asks, disoriented.

 Pop gestures to the half melted milkshake on the counter, drowning in its condensation. 

 “Shit, sorry.” Pop glares. “I mean, thanks, Pop. I’m . . . I dunno. Distracted.”

 “I can tell.” Pop tilts his graying head and peers at Jughead through surprisingly shrewd eyes. “Where are your friends tonight?”

 Jug snorts. “My what?”

 “Your friends. Fred Andrews’ kid, and Hermione’s girl. That Betty Cooper.”

 It didn’t escape Jug’s notice that Betty Cooper got a name where the rest of them were kids of an older generation. Betty, it seems, defied ownership. She was entirely her own.

 Jughead feels his stomach clench. “They’re, uh . . . they’re not my friends. Not really.”

 Pop belly laughs. “Don’t be an idiot. Your friends are always your friends in the end."

 Jug scowls and pushes his straw around the now syrupy mess before him. Ribbons of strawberry flavor bleed into each other like a Rorschach test. He keeps swirling until it's all one, indistinguishable mess.

 "No, I don’t think so.” Not anymore.

 “They’ll forgive you,” Pop declares, slapping his hand on the counter with the certainty of experience. “You just wait.”

 Jug snorts. “Wait. Yeah.”

 Wait.

 More waiting.

 That’s what Jughead Jones does. He waits. Shitty homelife? Just wait. It’ll to get better. Mom left? Wait for FP to get his shit together. Wait for a someday family reunion. Archie being a dick? Wait. It’s a phase. It’ll pass. Riverdale turned on its head? Just wait. There’s a new normal in town.

Losing Betty Cooper? Wait. Wait for Archie to fuck up. Wait for her to outgrow her jock phase. Wait for something to give. Wait wait wait wait wait wait.

But who the fuck is he supposed to wait  _ with _ ?

It’s strange. He’s no more alone than he was in June or July or August or ever. But somehow, after a week of concentrated Betty time, the sudden vacuum left a deeper scar of loneliness. At least before, he didn’t know what he was missing.

Now . . . now he has no one to blame but himself.

* * *

Jughead wasn’t sure how his conversation with Betty has devolved into a fight. What he’d thought was a simple conversation about editorial suggestions for his latest Jason Blossom article had rapidly led to a furious Betty towering over him, arms crossed and eyes flashing.

“So what you’re saying,” Betty concluded, “is that I can’t  _ possibly  _ understand your genius because I--what--wasn’t here this summer?”

“Wait. What? No!”

How the actual fuck had she drawn that conclusion? All Jughead meant was that . . . what, what had he meant? He tried to rehash the conversation. She'd suggested a change in tone, one that was more unifying. He'd said . . . fuck, what did he say? Something about his book. About his case study of the town. 

"I said I'd spent the summer pinpointing the tone of the town. That's all."

“It’s not what you said, Jughead Jones, it’s what you meant.”

He'd laughed at that. What folly. “What I _meant_? Are you serious?”

Her eyes narrowed to infuriated slits. “Don’t I look serious?”

Jughead drew a steadying breath. The situation had spiraled and the alarms reverberating through his body were all too familiar. His child services shrink had referred to it as a fight-or-flight instinct. Survival instinct.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Was that voice his? It sounded distant, automated. Like an answering machine, swooping in to stop-gap the day. Put the tension on pause. Regroup. The out was one greatly appreciated in the Jones family, an unspoken promise to discuss again when cooler heads prevail. Of course, that there were never cooler heads was beside the point. And probably explained in part when his mother had run away and his father failed to follow.

So it was disconcerting to say the least when Jug’s go-to tactic had the reverse effect on Betty.

Her green eyes were dark and her pouty lips disappeared into a sneer. “I beg your pardon.”

It wasn’t a question.

In that moment, Betty was every inch Alice Cooper’s daughter.

Jug hesitated.

Betty arched an eyebrow.

Jughead cleared his throat.

Betty waited.

Jughead caved. “I said I’m sorry.”

“For what?” she snarled.

“For . . . for upsetting you?”

Betty nodded. One nod. Straight down and up, no detours. Like a gavel at a sentencing.

“For upsetting me,” she repeated.

“Um. Yeah?”

She was perfectly still for a moment before turning on her heel and leaving the newspaper room. Jughead let her go.

* * *

 

Jughead's cheek is numb from resting on the cool counter top. The shake is still untouched. Pops is still tsking in the background. Jason Blossom's ghost still lingers in the corners. Time seems to have stopped in an all-too familiar moment that, for the first time, clobbers Jug with resounding emptiness.

Waiting.

He can't wait for the dust to settle. To see what normal will be.

Fuck waiting.

Jughead pushes away from the counter and slowly leaves the cocooned comfort of the chock lit shop. The bell chimes as he slips into the night and walks toward Betty Cooper.


	5. Time May Change Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead goes to see Betty and has to decide which version of himself he's going to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finally finally posting the last chapter to this. It's been a while, but I hope it wraps up the Jughead angst. After all, this fic is really about how Jughead has to change and become a participant rather than the disembodied voice of Riverdale. What's the one thing that can prompt this transition? Hmmm....I wonder....

Shit.

That trellis is taller than he remembers.

This is supposed to be a fucking apology visit, not a high school fitness test. Jughead’s prowess is intellectual, he grumbles, not physical. After all, thin is not the same as fit, not when it means a lack, a sliver of a whole.

Those fitness tests never were in Jug’s favor anyway. They didn’t test the real skills for real life. Where was the certificate for staying still enough to fake sleep while your drunken father broke a chairback? His muscles would ache after from the strain. Or pushing your full body weight against a door closed so your sister never saw daddy like that? Those tests were fucking rigged.

Jug’s arms burn has he hauls himself up, hanging from the white sill. He grazes his knuckles against the pane and -- his grip slips.

_ Fuck! _

His head thuds soundly against the manicured lawn below and a burst of pain thuds against the backs of his eyes.

The window curtain twitches slightly. Jug doesn’t see Betty’s face, but he knows she can see him. He can feel it. He gives her maybe three seconds before her better nature prompts her to check on him.

Two . . .

One . . .

Faint creaks fill the night, overwhelming his strained ears.

“Jughead?” She’s too far away to hear his gasps for breath. “Oh my God, are you ok, Jug?”   
  


* * *

“Are you ok, Juggie?”

Jughead snaps to attention just in time to see Betty duck under the bleachers to join him. Her hair is high in a customary ponytail, but wrapped around it are blue and gold curled ribbons. He trailed his eyes down over her cheerleading uniform, it’s revealing cut tempered by a crisp white long sleeve tee beneath. Still a damn good view.

“Hey, Betty. What are you doing here?”

Betty smiled softly. “I was kind of asking you that question.”

“I asked you first.”

“Not really.” She tossed her head and her ponytail bounced emphatically. “Mine was implied but equally valid.”

“It seems we’re at an impasse, then.”

“Quite.”

She settled on the asphalt next to him and dropped her head against the bleachers to mirror his pose. The two sat in silence for . . . minutes? Hours? Jughead couldn’t keep track. It was a bubble out of time, a peaceful reprieve from the slings and arrows of Riverdale High. Their little bleacher bunker.

It didn’t feel safe. Little pieces cut through the scene, like Betty’s new uniform, her freshly minted pride, her slight air of guilt, her clenching fists, her measured breathing, her hint of blush. The Betty Cooper facade was under fire from him. He couldn’t stop. It was this damned closeness, always together, always watching each other. Proximity was revealing new depths and fixations he’d never known before. 

Betty glanced up to meet his gaze. Jughead’s skin prickled with self conscious realization; he’d been staring at her for minutes, now, and she . . . was smiling. It was soft but it was there. She was waiting for him, as she always does when Jughead doesn’t want to talk about it until he does. A little mix of old stability in this new territory. It was enough.

Jughead swallowed roughly. “I don’t want to go home yet,” he admitted, talking around the issue rather than admitting there was one. “It’s, uh, not great right now. More so than, uh . . . you know.”

Betty nodded quietly. Softly. She did everything with a soft gentleness that Jughead would have hated from anyone else but her.

“I kind of need an escape myself,” she said, nudging his side. “Sounds like we both want a little sanctuary. Pop’s?”

Jughead watched her profile for signs of pity. There were none. How’d she do that? How did she do everything with such sincerity? He should hate it, he really should. It should grate at him and beg dismissal and mockery. He really shouldn’t believe her. Trust her. He should know better. He shouldn’t be such a fucking sucker.

“Sounds perfect.” 

* * *

“Jug, are you okay?” Betty demands again, a thread of urgency in her voice.

“Just admiring the view,” he drawls, gesturing to the night sky spread out above him.

“What are you doing here?” she whispers. Her voice is polite and controlled, so she was obviously still fucking furious. It was a quiet rage. A Betty Cooper rage, full of seductive stillness.

“I’m trying to apologize. Obviously.”

He could almost hear her headshake. It was annoyed and angry and amused all at one. The type of head shake that he’d seen maybe twice, when Archie was a disappointing fuck and she was too loyal to really blame him.

Jughead’s eyes flicked over to his best friend’s window. No sign of movement.

Betty’s voice breaks the silence again. “Well, you’re doing a terrible job so far.”

“I’ve encountered a minor setback, it’s true.”

Betty sighs and mumbles something indecipherable before whispering, “There’s a ladder lying against the garage.”

She closes the window with a clapperboard snap. 

Alright. Take two.

Minutes later, Jughead is perched outside Betty’s window, watching her sitting stoically at her vanity. She's beautiful. He raps gently on the window. She takes a deep breath and marches over to open it.

A wry smile sneaks over his face. “Hey there, Juliet. Nurse off duty?”

Her scowl is tremendous, but she steps back and makes room for him. A Jughead sized square on the outskirts of her space. He couldn’t ask for anything more.

She paces to the middle of the room and whirls around, arms crossed, head cocked expectantly. Ay, there’s the rub--that expectation driving him these days, spinning idle chatter into motive, pushing distance into the nooks and crannies of his relationships. Pushing him to action.

He can feel his guts tighten up, bracing for impact. Those cowards.

He clears his throat, but his voice tears through some obstacle anyway, and sounds a piss poor version of himself. “So.”

Betty cocks her eyebrows incredulously. “So? That’s it, Jughead? _So_?”

Jughead fights against his stoppered words. Whatever force drove him from Pop’s here was knocked out of him when he saw her face, and he’s just a lost boy now, and so deeply scared of losing his Betty.

“You hurt me, Jug.”

The accusation cuts through him, nicking some hereto undiscovered artery somewhere near the jugular that bleeds words. They tumble through his mind, his throat, his stomach, even his goddamn fingers. He itches to type his apology, to bury his head behind his screen and spit out 5,000 words on why he’s standing here, in her offensively pink bedroom, when he couldn’t bring himself to talk to Archie for months or call his sister or see his father or be near any other person who might crack his precarious defenses because she’s really truly the only force that can act on his immovable object with a momentum built on years of being the brightest light in his cold, dark night.

“I--” he manages to rasp. The word rings hollow in his ears.

“What, Jug?” Her eyebrows are raised. That isn’t a good sign for neither her temper nor his resolve. Honest to God, she looks like a damned Greek fury come to life from legend.

“Just tell me . . . I want to know . . . .” Betty huffs a breath before continuing. Jughead tries to stay focused on her words instead of her lips. “Why did you even agree to write for the Blue and Gold if you don’t respect--” Her voice breaks, and she swallows the rest of her question.

Jughead releases the breath he’s been holding. “Bets, it’s not . . . you know it’s not like that.”

Her mouth twitches down as she shakes her head.

“Betty . . . .”

Jug gapes in horror as fat tear rolls down her cheek. 

_ This is all Jason fucking Blossom’s fault.  _

Goddamn Jason Blossom had to go die and break this fragile town into Twilight Zone ruin. Archie barreling through people in pursuit of his music, New York socialites eating cafeteria burgers, and Betty Cooper crying over something Jughead Jones said. Normal has been slipping away for a while, but its comforting net has never felt so out of reach.  Jughead’s hand twitches at his side. He wants to reach out to Betty and comfort her, but touching her would break another bulwark in old Riverdale’s defenses. They were falling fast enough with Jughead pushing them. He was a conscientious objector, refusing to engage in the clashing hypocrisy that made Riverdale the home he loathed and loved.

But he had to say something. He can’t leave her believing that she’s some accessory to his story when she’s the fucking star. It’s just this damn shifting ground that unbalanced the precarious known universe and has Jughead scrambling for something to anchor him to reality.

“Betty, you can’t believe that,” he manages to squeeze out between her sobs.

She heaves a mocking sob. “I can’t? Well, what the hell am I supposed to believe, Jughead?”

“Believe me,” he answers in a voice small and sincere enough to get her attention. She blinks those sincere eyes at him, and the words just spill out, haphazard and half-baked. “It just--it feels like too much sometimes. Archie, my family, my town . . . it’s all been upended, and it feels like it all started with Jason Blossom. I needed to understand then. I needed to know. Then and now. And it didn’t matter how close I got to the point of disruption because I didn’t have anything to lose, but you . . . whatever poison is spilling into this wound in Riverdale, I don’t want you fucking near it.”

She pulled herself up to full Cooper height and reached out to grasp his trembling arm. “This is my home, too, Jughead. My town. And what’s more, I don’t need your protection.”

“You don't understand," he whispers. "No, I’m the one that needs protection, Betty.”

Betty draws her brow in confusion. “Jug . . . .”

She trails off, leading Jughead to what feels like a precipice. He can retreat, unsay his piece and let the band aid of denial salvage the last relationship old Riverdale holds for him. Or . . .

Or he can let it go. Let the shards of broken Riverdale stop digging into him and let it go. He could just tell her. He could stop fighting it. Looking at Betty, seeing the heartbreak etched on her face, Jughead knows he can’t salvage their old friendship, not really. She’s gotten too close. She's seen the cracks. His facade isn’t going to work anymore. She's peeked inside and, by miracle, she's tried to close the gap. Jughead's too selfish to let her get away.

He’s only got one real option.

“Change has never been good to me,” Jughead begins, tension lacing his voice and shoulders. “It’s never . . . things go from bad to worse like falling dominoes, but Riverdale never changed. Archie, Pop’s, you . . . you’re bastions of peace. Or you were.” His voice catches on the shrapnel lodged in his chest, tearing it raw.

Betty’s eyes are wide with worry, but she stays silent. Thank God.

“Jason’s murder broke Riverdale, but it didn’t break me. I was already broken, Betty.” Betty stepped toward him and goddamn it all he was not going to cry. He didn’t really feel like crying. It’s just the emotional charge that comes with voicing a new truth. “It broke everyone else. Old Riverdale died, along with its sleepy complacency, and I swear, Betty, I swear I thought I wanted that for so many years, but when it happened . . . I saw everyone becoming a bit more like me.” 

Fuck, just say it.

“You, Betty. You were becoming a bit more like me, and . . . I-I know me.” Jughead swallows roughly. “You’re too good for that shit.”

Betty is cradling his cheek before notices she’s even moved. Her eyes are soft and warm and brimming with unshed tears, but she doesn’t say anything. Of course, there really isn’t anything to say.

But it’s different. It's change. Unshed tears and weighty confessions aren’t the stuff of Jughead’s friendships, but here he stands in a painfully pink bedroom with a fathomless girl before him, and he has no one to blame but himself. Jason Blossom didn’t put him here, didn’t twist his arm, didn’t force Jug’s hand. Jughead wanted to blame Jason, like he did for so much of new Riverdale’s dark and twisty makeover, but this final string to old Riverdale tugging on Jughead’s heart? Jug was snipping it all on his own.

Jughead finds Betty's gaze and leans into it.

“Also . . . .”


End file.
